


I've got a cavern of secrets (none of them are for you)

by objectlesson



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Banter, Blood Drinking, Blood Play, Choking, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Established Dynamic, Humiliation, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Modern AU, Power Play, Vampire Thranduil, Werewolf Dain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:55:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27233092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: Thranduil would much prefer indifference where Dain is concerned, but he’s never been able to maintain it, no matter how many times he’s tried it on. It always fits poorly: a cheap coat, itchy and uncomfortable until he rips if off in frustration and crawls, slinking back to the rich, shadowed,barbedvelvet between Dain’s thighs, where he is often invited.Or, two monsters in a blood bar.
Relationships: Dáin Ironfoot/Thranduil
Comments: 10
Kudos: 31





	I've got a cavern of secrets (none of them are for you)

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween I guess?!!! I'm just throwing rare pairs at you all left and right, I know. I just think these two are well matched because they're both awful assholes and also opposites in as many ways as they're the same. I also hardly ever get to explore unhealthy/problematic D/S dynamics anymore because of the fandoms I write for, but these two are perfect for it!! They are so messy!!
> 
> I haven't written vampire fic in forever but boy it used to me my jam. It was fun to come home to. Enjoy!

Thranduil would much prefer indifference where Dain is concerned, but he’s never been able to maintain it, no matter how many times he’s tried it on. It always fits poorly: a cheap coat, itchy and uncomfortable until he rips if off in frustration and crawls, slinking back to the rich, shadowed, _barbed_ velvet between Dain’s thighs, where he is often invited.

—-

Thranduil is drinking a champagne flute of blood at his favorite posh blood bar when _Dain_ shows up, hair messy and damp from his motorcycle helmet, leather jacket creaking. He looks out of place here, and not _just_ because he isn’t a vampire. 

Thranduil tightens his grip, nearly shattering glass and O negative all over the bar. “I thought it smelled like dog,” he snaps, wrinkling up his nose. “What are you doing here? I thought we agreed _never_ to meet in public.”

Dain doesn't even look at him. He finger combs his beard and leans over the bar so the edge of it digs into the firm curve of his belly. Thranduil knows what it’s like to suffocate under that solid, hard-packed weight, and he _hates_ that even now, his skin prickles at the proximity, the memory. “Calm your silly undead heart, pretty boy,” Dain barks, tapping the grooved mahogany with sticky fingers. “M’not here for you.” 

Then, he flags the bartender over with a thick arm. “Tauriel,” he says, nodding crisply to her like they are old friends. “Can I get a shot of AB for my friend to quiet him down? And then, neat whiskey for me.” 

“They don’t serve whiskey here, I am _not_ your friend and I don’t even _like_ AB. If we were friends, you would know that about me,” Thranduil snarls, body suddenly electric and tight as Dain leans in, smirking easily. He can smell his sweat, his leather, his aftershave, and under it all, something animal. It is the wild smell lingering in the woods when you can hear a creature crackling in distant underbrush, but cannot make out what it is in the darkness. Thranduil thinks of glowing eyes flashing in the black of night. Of howls, and full moons. 

“Oh, is that so? Not a fan of AB? Then tell me, sprite, why is it you seem to have _no_ problem drinking from me,” Dain says in a low voice so that only Thranduil can hear him, words accompanied by a shrug and a bushy brow quirked up over those flashing amber eyes. Then he catches the drink Tauriel slides down the bar at him in one fist, easily and without looking up. “And yes they _do_ serve whiskey, if you ask nicely. M’sure you’re not in the habit of that, though? Unless it’s for me, and you’re on your knees.” 

Thranduil should get up and leave. He should tell Tauriel that Dain is a werewolf, that he can’t be here, that he’s not welcome. He should _demand_ he be removed. Or else, he should back hand him swiftly. _Something._ He is the king of his people, and no one would question his judgement. 

But instead, he turns away, trying his hardest to keep his face placid and unreadable. “Well, I _have_ been known to stoop to terrible lows, when I'm hungry.” 

“Hm. I don’t care whether or not you’re hungry, Dracula, as long as you’re you’re stooping, and low, and terrible,” Dain says with a wink. “Like you best that way, I think.” 

Thranduil _knows,_ then, with an awful spike of regret twined with hunger leaping in his chest like a flame, where he will end up tonight. Likely in the bathroom of the blood bar if he's lucky, or perhaps the garbage ripe back-alley behind it, if he’s not. This is how Dain is: inevitable. Thranduil has tried to twist from his grip many times, but always, he ends up relenting. It is best to cede to the urge on his own terms, so then he can at least pretend it was his move all along. Checkmate, from the very first. 

It’s not a hand he’s ready to show yet, so instead he takes a sip of his drink and dabs his mouth with his black cloth napkin. “It does not trouble me, for one day you will die, Dain Ironfoot, and I will not,” he murmurs, regarding him over the tapered glass flute with prudent, cold eyes. “Dead…I’d like _you_ best that way, I think.” 

“Somehow, I don't believe that’s true,” Dain says before he passes his tongue over one of his sharp, glinting canine teeth, and Thranduil feels the fire smoldering deep in the pit of his gut waver, and crackle, and grow. 

—-

It seems Dain _does_ frequent this bar, though Thranduil has never seen him here before and the subjects he keeps around to pry for information have never said anything about it. But clearly, Dain is no stranger. He exchanges wary nods with some fellow patrons, and even slings an arm around regulars Thranduil has never bothered to introduce himself to, slapping backs and shouting names jovially and catching up, so many mouths stained red stretched over white teeth in genuine laughter as he speaks.

Thanduil withers at the bar, and orders himself another. He has long entertained the belief that all other vampires do (or at least should) live as he does: carefully, in isolation. He rules remotely, and from a distance. It is how he does everything. Friends were a luxury of the living, or else that of lesser creatures than himself. Shifters. Werewolves.

But here Dain is, proving him wrong yet again. Cheeks red with whiskey as he weaves between groups at the bar, head thrown back with mirth, expressive brows arched over twinkling gold eyes. Dain is a shrewd _diplomat_ , Thranduil realizes. Perhaps the uneasy but long-sustained peace between the wolves and vampires who both reside in this part of town has existed unchallenged for so long because Dain Ironfoot stubbornly willed it so. Because Dain Ironfoot drinks whiskey at blood bars and chats the locals up as if they are his friends. Because Dain is a different king than Thranduil is. 

Thranduil wishes he was not seething at the thought. He'd much prefer indifference where Dain is concerned, but he’s never been able to maintain it, no matter how many times he’s tried it on. It always fits poorly: a cheap coat, itchy and uncomfortable until he rips if off in frustration and crawls, slinking back to the rich, shadowed, _barbed_ velvet between Dain’s thighs, where he is often invited. 

He’s managed to ensure their arrangement carries out in secret, for very many years. It is not difficult. Thranduil rarely ventures outside the constraints of his own careful territory and vast mansion, and he does not maintain relationships beyond professional necessities so there is no one, really, to _find out_ what he does with Dain Ironfoot in the dark. If there is wolf-fur clinging to his red silk sheets in the morning, the maids say nothing, and that is all that matters. 

This is why it’s troublesome to see Dain here. To witness him brushing shoulders with the very same vampires Thranduil has managed to keep at polite, fear-stricken arms length for centuries. To see that belligerent strength come barreling into a blood bar without shattering anything. 

Thranduil is dizzy and hot all over when he finally peels Dain away from the herd long enough to corner him. It is in a dark, mirrored hallway leading to the back rooms of the bar. Only one of them has a reflection, so Thranduil is surrounded by tiny and infinite Dains refracted back at him as he slams him into glass, forearm flexing against his furred throat. “I asked you once and you failed to answer,” he growls, inhaling the liquor in the damp air between them as Dain huffs out a breath. “But dogs are stupid creatures, so, I shall ask again, more clearly this time for your benefit: _what_ are you doing here, Dain Ironfoot?” 

Dain taps a thick, dark-nailed finger against Thranduil’s elbow. “Can’t say much with that willowy little stick-arm digging into my throat,” he says. 

Thranduil minimally relents the pressure, making sure Dain can breathe, but can’t move. He thinks of reminding Dain his arms are a _far cry_ from _sticks_ and he could snap his neck in an instant if he so wishes, but he decides it is best to pick his battles. “Do you need the question once more? I hear the third time is a charm.” 

Dain studies his face, eyes flashing gold in such a way the color belies that is he not human. It tugs at Thranduil’s gut. “If you must know, I have _friends_ here,” Dain says evenly. “You are not the only vampire I share counsel with. As the king of my people _some_ diplomacy is necessary. You should try it some time.” 

Thranduil ducks closer, a wisp of long blonde hair catching upon the studs of Dain’s motorcycle jacket, snagging there like spiderweb. He tries to free them with a jerk of his head, but they remain, and so he rustles impatiently. “Tell me: am I the only vampire you share _blood_ with?” he asks then, because he must _know,_ even if he badly wishes he didn’t _need_ to now. He wishes he did not care about Dain Ironfoot’s blood, and who’s throat has been slicked with it.

Dain laughs, the force of the rumble shaking his chest. He has spots of color on his cheeks, and Thranduil can smell the fierce copper of them, so much richer and darker than a human’s blood. Wolves taste so strong it should be cloying, it should be _revolting_ , and maybe it _would be_ coming from different veins, but of course, Dain is the exception to everything, as much as Thranduil hates to admit it. He’d much prefer indifference where Dain is concerned, but he’s never been able to maintain it, no matter how many times he’s tried it on. 

“You silly, pitiful thing,” Dain wheezes through laughter, somehow managing to keep his body language nonchalant even as he is being pinned to the wall and towered over. “You’re jealous. You _hate_ the idea of me letting some other cold, ugly, undead bastard suck it like I let you suck it, don’t you?” his voice is musical with delight, and Thranduil wants to choke him to death. 

Instead, his cock twitches in his white linen trousers. “I want to know if my private supply has been tainted with another’s spit,” he clarifies, making sure the last word snaps wetly out of his mouth, tiny droplets of saliva clinging to Dain’s beard. 

Dain does not blink. He only makes a show of licking his lips. “What do you want me to tell you to soothe the fever in that pretty little head, hmm? That you're my _only?_ That I am a king’s treat and that alone? _”_ Then he clucks his tongue, voice thick with mock-pity. “Thranduil, I thought we agreed there were no rules to this thing we do. _You’re_ the one who insisted so, remember.” 

“I don’t want you to tell me _anything_ but the truth you _filthy_ mongrel,” Thranduil hisses cuttingly, at long last pressing the length of his body into Dain’s, shifting against him, seeking purchase and heat and friction. Dain groans, and finally reaches out and touches Thranduil’s body, cupping his ass with a thick-fingered hand and making a rough, searing fist in it. Up until this point his arms were crossed in feigned indifference, but Thranduil can _feel_ the hunger in his sure-fire grip, and it makes his own vision crackle with madness. His mouth falls open around a silent gasp as he rubs his cock into the firm curve of Dain’s stomach.

_“_ Aye, the truth,” Dain murmurs teasingly, voice hot and breathy along the hinge of Thranduil’s jaw. “A prize you care _so_ much about.” He fumbles up the curve of Thranduil’s ass only to ruck his silk shirt from his belt, so that he might shove his palm down the back of his trousers and touch skin unobstructed by fabric. “Tell me, your majesty, why is it you covet truths but refuse to give them up freely? For example, I was told _never_ to acknowledge your _pompous_ ass in public. When I saw you sitting there at the bar in your pretty clothes with your pretty flute of blood staining those pretty lips, I was ready to pretend I only knew you as the king. That I’d never seen you bent in two fucking yourself on my cock like you’d die without a wolf’s seed in your stomach. And then?” he shifts his hand lower, dips his fingers into the crack of Thranduil’s ass and rubs roughly over the furled muscle of his core. 

Thranduil cannot breathe, his head is swimming and he must lock his knees lest they give out suddenly. “Imagine my surprise when _you_ address _me_! Right there in front of the whole bar. The king of the vampires snapping at the king of the wolves like an old married couple. And now, you’re letting me pet that tight little hole right here, where anyone could walk in and see,” he growls, punctuating each word with a circling pass of his calloused fingertips, eliciting sparks of sensation so dizzying Thranduil can hardly keep upright. “Seems _you’re_ the one who owes _me_ an explanation, I’m afraid.” 

Thranduil is quiet as he rocks into the pressure, as he fiercely digs his forearm back into Dain’s throat with punishing force just to feel the air sputter out of him, just to see his cheeks flush again. _It does not trouble me, for one day you will die, Dain Ironfoot, and I will not_ he thinks, since it is his only failsafe thought in moments like these, when he feels truly possessed, and truly lost to that possession. After all, it is the only way he can come out on top. His pitiful winning hand. “The explanation,” he offers, licking a stripe up the side of Dain’s face, tasting salt and dirt and the earthy, organic, once-alive bite of leather. “Is that there are rooms, in the back of this bar. Private rooms. Killing rooms, for patrons who order live meals. And _that_ is where they thought I was taking you, pet. No one in this bar would dare challenge me on who I chose for my prey, and none of your _friends_ here cared for you enough to warn you about where I was leading you,” he ventures, though they both know it is a gambit. A suggestion. _Just down the hall there is a locking door and a space beyond it where we would not be bothered. Just down the hall you can have more than your fist down my trousers._

Dain laughs again, though it comes out strangled, spit on his chin as Thranduil chokes him. “Ah, so _that_ was your plan all along,” he coughs, pressing the tip of his finger into Thranduil, making his breath catch at the slow, dirty burn. “To finish me off, this time. I see. Well then, let’s get on with it. Take me to this fancy room and suck me dry.” 

Then Dain withdraws from his hole _and_ his trousers, leaving Thranduil shuddering at the sudden loss of pressure. His body is a wreck of wanting, now, and there is no going back. He steps away with much difficulty, forcing his arm into Dain’s windpipe one last time as if in warning, before he straightens his clothing and leads them both into the bowels of the bar, where vampires go to feed, and others go to die. 

—-

It’s better than a back alley or a bathroom, that’s for certain. Thranduil is high with complacency and anticipation as he drops to his knees, sitting back and watching Dain spread out open the black velvet chaise. The sight is absurd, the delicate furniture so fragile and breakable beneath the sprawl of Dain’s solid, animal weight. 

He leisurely pops the button of his tented black jeans. “You want to swallow my come before you kill me, don’t you, angel?” he asks in a low voice as he takes his thick cock out, thumbing over the weeping, crimson crown. Thranduil’s stomach lurches at the term of endearment, because off all the mocking insults Dain throws at him, _angel_ always cuts the deepest. Perhaps it is the irony. The inaccuracy. The blasphemy. The way it is dragging something holy through a muck-choked gutter to stain it black. Thranduil does not know, because he’s stopped trying to understand the way his body reacts to Dain Ironfoot. He only braces himself as best he can, and weathers each wave as it crashes over him. 

“You hardly deserve any pleasure before your pain, after the extent of your transgression tonight,” Thranduil says, eyes tracking the steady, indulgent motion of Dain’s fist over his cock. 

Dain is not listening to him, though. He kicks at his knee with his mud crusted motorcycle boot, leaving a red-brown scuff on Thranduil’s linen pants. “Take these hideous things off,” he orders, reaching down to cup and roll his own balls in a meaty fist. “The shirt too, if you can even call a silly scrap like that a shirt. More like veil. A scarf. I can see those sweet pink nipples through it, and all I can think about is how they taste.” His voice is idle, nothing more than a half-hearted grunt, but there’s urgency to the motion in his wrist, and his cock is _dripping,_ and these things are not lost to Thranduil. So, he takes his time undressing. 

“Lord almighty,” Dain murmurs once Thranduil is fully naked, skin a pale smudge in the candle-lit darkness. “Isn’t that a beautiful sight. The Vampire King on his knees, begging for wolf cock.” Then, he leans forward with a pained groan, and touches Thranduil: one hand twisted roughly in his hair, the other mauling over his chest until he pinches a nipple firmly between thumb and forefinger. He rubs and pulls until it’s sore and red and hard enough to grab onto and drag Thranduil by, leading him up between the broad, lewd splay of his thighs. “Give me that throat, angel,” he says almost _softly_ , pulling Thranduil by his hair so his cheek bumps up against the fire-heat of his cock. “I’ve choked plenty tonight, it’s your turn.” 

Thranduil lets his mouth go slack and his eyes flutter closed. He knows there’s no use in trying to suck Dain with any skill or precision, because this always starts with getting his face fucked. It’s perhaps the only circumstance in all his terribly long life he has given up and allowed his mind to go blank: here, between Dain’s powerful thighs, mouth full of his cock. He drools and sucks in desperate lungfuls through his nose and allows his mouth to be used as a sleeve, a vacancy, a hole. And there is a wonderful _peace_ in that, he believes. When one lives long enough, feelings grow cold and meaningless and fade into the ether, but as long as you cultivate pride, _humiliation_ remains. It is the strongest thing Thranduil experiences, at this point, and perhaps _that_ is why he cannot say no to Dain Ironfoot. Because he has lost everything but his pride, and humiliation is pride’s foil.

He loses time to the rush of blood in his ears and the ache of his jaw and the sting in his throat. There’s spit on his face and all he can hear is slick, vile slurping and Dain’s litany of profanity, the scrape of his fingers against Thranduil’s skull as he holds him in place and uses him. But eventually, Dain pulls him off, and lays his cheek out on his knee, cock red and bobbing in the candlelight as Thranduil gasps, chasing it with his tongue. “Such a pretty cocksucker. Such a hungry throat,” Dain murmurs, hooking two fingers into Thranduil’s mouth and petting over the inside of his cheek, a rare moment of tenderness before he drags him back, this time to his balls. “Suck them,” he demands, forcing Thranduil’s jaw open wide. “Show me that candy pink tongue. _God._ Look at you. All that absurd pretense, just to get here. Mouth full of wolf.” 

Thranduil dutifully licks, matting down the red and silver hair before rucking it up with his face again, drunk on the taste of Dain, the filth and the fierce, animal musk of him. It’s unlike _anything_ else—nearly every other smell or flavor he can break down into components, strip until it’s elemental. But not Dain. He is the only force strong and awful and consuming enough to drown out Thranduil’s desire to deconstruct. He _only_ _smells_ like himself. He _only tastes_ like himself. And it doesn’t matter if Thranduil loves it or hates it: it’s absolute, and that’s what he _needs_ in order to combat the endless ennui of immortality. 

“My pretty little bat,” Dain says, twisting Thranduil’s hair around his wrist and tugging. “Look at me.” 

Thranduil does, certain his eyes are either flashing with contempt or shot through with hunger until they are nothing but black, yearning voids. Judging by the the way Dain smirks and laughs in a low rumble, he ventures it’s the latter. Thranduil squints, making out the glint of something metal clasped in Dain’s fist through the haze of his own tears. It’s a pocket-knife. 

Dain spreads his thighs wider, hefting himself up at the right angle to expose the access point of his femoral artery. Then, he cuts himself swiftly and efficiently, right beside it. “There you go,” he hisses, cock flexing, blood rising obscenely to the surface mere seconds after the flash of gold against his skin. “Put that dirty mouth right here.” 

Thranduil does not need to be told twice. He pitches towards the wound and fixes his mouth over it, cock dripping between this own thighs as he sucks hungrily, moved in spite of himself by the knowledge Dain would offer him blood _so close_ to the killing-vein. He should not be trusted, but it feels maddening to know he is, all the same. 

Dain touches his cock, knuckles brushing past Thranduil’s cheek on each downstroke. “Touch yourself for me,” he orders, knocking Thranduil’s knees achingly wide with his boot. “Let me see how hard wolf blood makes that cock.”

Thranduil fists clumsily over his length, vision nothing but static, heart in pieces as he swallows mouthful after mouthful of thick, metallic blood. He’s close, he can feel the heat of his orgasm building deep in hit gut, but it’s not until Dain brushes the hair away from his face and stares down at him, promising in a shattered, far away voice: “You are the only one I let do this. The only,” that he lets himself capsize over the precipice of his own pleasure, and spiral into blackness. 

He comes in pulses over his fist, groaning in the wound on Dain’s thigh, tongue pressed to the mouth of it. He must like that, because he pulls Thranduil off, then, and spreads the cut with his fingers so it winks open. “Fuck that slit with your tongue,” he orders, voice very low, very rough. “Ah. Yes. Like that, _fuck.”_

Thranduil does as he’s told, rhythmically pressing into the shallow cut as Dain jacks himself off, and in seconds ribbons of hot come are falling into his cheek, burning deliciously. He surrounded himself with the raw, messy groan falling from Dain’s lips, spent cock pulsing in his his own come-slick hand as he squeezes it, shuddering with his own aftershocks. 

And then, it is over, and they are alone in the killing room together, Dain trying to catch his breath while Thranduil nurses blood, drunk on the taste of whiskey spiking the dull copper bite of AB. “So,” Dain says eventually, idly playing with his cock as it softens, shrinking back into his foreskin, spit-slick and still very impressive in its thickness. Thranduil tracks the motion, astounded there is anything in the world that threatens to tempt his mouth away from a fresh, bleeding wound. “Are you going to drain me and end it all, or would you prefer to keep me alive so you can choke on this again sometime?” 

Thranduil pulls away slowly, then spits a thick, frothy mouthful of saliva onto the wound to cauterize it. Dain laughs weakly, feeling his way around the swiftly and magically healing wound with curious, knowing fingers. “That’s what I thought,” Dain grunts, quirking up an eyebrow. “You’re a predictable thing, aren’t you.” 

“And you’re a disgusting mutt,” Thranduil says when he finds his shirt on the floor and wrinkles his nose at the way it smells. “I will have to dryclean everything you touches.” 

“Shut your fanged trap,” Dain scolds, dragging him in with a fistful of hair again so that he might thumb over his sharp teeth before pushing him away like he’s disposable. “Always telling lies. I know very well you _love_ the way I smell. Gets you hard. Makes you drool. You’d suck me every night if I let you.” 

“Dain,” Thranduil breezes as he stands and tugs on his unfortunately _quite_ wrinkled trousers. “Don’t come back here again, you understand? You got lucky tonight. Next time, I’ll have them throw you out. Or, worse, kill you.” 

Dain smirks. “Certainly, your majesty. I’ll stay away from all my usual haunts, and you will watch the tentative peace between our people disappear like a candle being snuffed, just like that. You can sit on your pretty throne in your silly mansion on the hill and ignore your people all you want, but the only reason they don't flood your halls and eat you alive is because _some_ folks make an effort to play nice. Rub elbows. Assure one another borders are tight, over blood and whiskey. Send me away, and you’ll see.Not every man who howls at the moon is as willing to play nice with the likes of you, King Thranduil.” 

He spits the word king out, because Dain has always made it clear he does not actually view or acknowledge Thranduil’s power. Like undiluted flavor and the ghost of humiliation, it sticks. Leaves scars on Thranduil’s skin he will worry over with his finger, later, even if he does not allow his face to show such things in the moment. “We don’t play nice,” Thranduil reminds him, threading his belt through the loops and tucking in his shirt. “I am hungry, and you feed me, and that is all.” 

“Whatever you say,” Dain says with amusement curling his lips as he bows deep enough his beard brushes the floor. “Until next time, angel.” 

—-

Later, Thranduil lies in darkness at his home, trying to remember the taste on his tongue, chasing it in his half dreams. His clothes smell like leather and mud and dog, and instead of ordering his maid to wash them, he presses his face into the fabric in the private darkness of his own lonely home and inhales until his head swims. Stooping, low, and terrible. 


End file.
